


The Car Problem

by lorannah



Category: Black Books, Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Gen, Not-Quite-RPF, Silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-23
Updated: 2010-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-07 12:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/65072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorannah/pseuds/lorannah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's been a mix-up - the Nabootique is looking a bit grimy and there are books everywhere. Meanwhile Bernard Black is having a fashion crisis. It involves a jumpsuit. And things are just getting weirder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Car Problem

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to dedicate to this to the squirrels of Camden – five years on and still the finest squirrels I've had the pleasure to meet. More seriously (sort of) I have no idea if this even vaguely works and feel somewhat, right now, like I have unleashed something monstrous on the internet. Also there is a Crimp, it was next to impossible to write - so in the words of Bernard Black - "It's dreadful, but quite short." So I hope you'll all forgive me for all this silliness.
> 
> Download link: http://www.box.net/shared/rt4uldu8iq

Noel had to admit that he less walked to the car, as lurched in its general direction. It had been a long night. And, mentally at least, an even longer morning as his alarm had distressingly punctuated the heavy, twilight dreams he’d been trapped in – dragging him slowly upwards. Fleeting images from the dreams still spun lazily through his pounding mind. A gentle melody twisting through the cacophony. Eskimos and fire breathers and newt-men and... squirrels?

Squirrels? It was a sudden twitch of a memory. There had definitely been an encounter with squirrels last night, though he wasn’t sure exactly where you could find trees in Camden, let alone wildlife.

It was definitely the sort of morning designed for large sunglasses.

He crawled into the car to find Dave already waiting for him, arms folded and eyebrow cocked and at the ready. “Late again.”

Noel ignored him, groaning as he slid into the seat. He’d be alright by the time they got to the studio, and by the time he was Vince he’d be just dandy. Vince didn’t get hangovers, Noel had whole secret theories circling the fact - it always gave him a strange sense of invincibility. Though at the moment that power was being blocked by an entirely Noel-shaped chasm of pain.

“Ah,” Dave said with an entirely unsympathetic grin, “So the sunglasses aren’t you accessorising.”

“No – they are me accessorising, they’re just not only me accessorising.” It was a long sentence, he was proud of it. Leaning back against the seat, Noel closed his eyes blocking out the small bit  
of sunshine still creeping through the dark lenses – London lost to him.

“Where did you end up last night, anyway?” Dave was being ridiculously chipper for someone who had downed Mike’s bodyweight in alcohol. He was probably still drunk; the hangover would kick in just as he entered the suit of doom. That was a happy thought.

There was an expectant silence and Noel cracked one eye open to find Dave staring at him, waiting for an answer. “Squirrels,” he offered.

“Always the squirrels, they’ll come after you, you know – if you keep blaming them for everything.”

“Urrggghhh.” Noel closed his eyes again and leaned against the cool glass of the car’s window, feeling the vibrations run oddly across his skin as they lapsed into blissful silence. It was like getting a massage from a very energetic caterpillar and right now his mind was in no state to decide if that was a good or a bad thing.

He was just slipping into squirrel-filled sleep when Dave spoke again. “Have you read this?”

“Read what?”

“Today’s script. Who the hell is Manny?”

It took worryingly long seconds for Noel’s mind to catch up with the question. He didn’t remember a character called Manny. Unless that was what they’d called the Grand Mushromp.... Nope, that had been Cyril. He groaned again. This was probably going to require consciousness.

Sitting forward slowly, carefully maintaining the delicate balance between motion and nausea, he pushed the glasses up onto his head and reached for the script.

“Eurrrggh,” Dave grinned at him as he handed it over.

“Is this the one we sent you?” He asked.

“No, found it in the car – presumed it was rewrites.”

Noel managed to focus on it just enough to make out the bolded names – Manny, Bernard, Bernard, Manny… A few lines of dialogue shuffled into view. He couldn’t remember writing any of them. He couldn’t even remember Julian writing any of them.

It took precious co-ordination to rescue his phone from the inside of his jacket. And even more scanty concentration to hit the right button on his speed dial.

“’Ello,” Julian answered, in sympathetic misery.

“Have you been rewriting the script again?”

****

“I kind of like it,” he said staring at himself in the mirror. Not that it was particularly unusual that he was wearing a… well, something that resembled a Hawaiian shirt. All bright colours and block patterns. But the shorts were a bit tight and... well, short and he couldn’t help but feel the hat was an odd addition to his normal ensemble. It wasn’t even bringing out his hair.

He was in that weird in-between stage reserved solely for the make-up chair. Not quite Bill anymore, but not quite Manny yet. A transformation incomplete. He had a special nickname just for this stage – now he was Mandibill Bailey.

“Hmm…” Tamfransin adjusted her turban again. “This is alright, I’m just not sure about the robe. Did they say anything to you about me being a genie?”

From the next room a groan and a flurry of swear words announced the arrival of Bernard. Mandibill had never seen a moment when Bernard was anything other than absolutely himself or absolutely Dylan and, if he was going to be absolute honest, wasn’t sure he could tell the two apart anyway.

There was the sound of a bang, a clatter of metal and the shatter of breaking glass and Bernard lurched into the doorway. He paused there for a moment, arms spread balancing himself and an expression of  
menace on his face – giving them a chance to drink in his outfit

He was dressed in a low cut sparkly silver jumpsuit – a tight low cut sparkly silver jumpsuit, complete with vivid red boots. Even his hair had been teased into something resembling a style.

It was a strange moment of horror.

Manny shuddered. Bernard was wearing eyeliner.

****

Howard stood, flicking through a book. The shop seemed oddly full of the things. Dusty and dark and piled haphazardly around the room. Vince was late. Again. Very late. His pen and notebook were ready, waiting for the latest excuse.

****

“He’s a bit miserable,” the new Runner whispered, eyes fixed on the set. “I mean I’d heard he could be difficult to work with but I don’t think I’ve seen him say a word to anyone since he got here.”

The First A.D. didn’t look up from his clipboard. It was always like this with new people. “He’s in character.”

“What?”

“He’s in character, we don’t exist to him anymore. He just sees the shop. You talk to him and he’ll try to sell you something. Better just to leave him to himself.”

“Errr… right.”

“It’s not like all those behind the scenes documentaries, you know. They film them specially, so people think they’re normal.”

It took time for people to get there heads around it, when they could – mostly they just didn’t show up for their second day. They convinced themselves it was an elaborate practical joke or that they’d all been nuts or start saying words like stress and nervous breakdown. It really made it hard to get motivated on the training front.

“Should I go and see where Bill Bailey is?” The Runner suggested nervously, breaking unwelcomingly into his conversation.

“Manny,” he corrected him automatically. It wasn’t really a Runner’s job but at least it would get rid of him. He glanced up quickly, just long enough to catch a flash of brightly coloured shirt. “Anyway Manny’s the one there, you can go and look for Bernard if you want.”

  
****

The Runner found the Second A.D. outside Make-up and Hair, hands buried deep in her jacket pockets, eyeing it apprehensively. There was simply no denying it, something was wrong. The door to the room was shaking, he could see it trembling. The sound of shouting loud enough to hear, even stood at the end of the corridor.

“Good god,” the Runner said, eyes fixed on the door, “Shouldn’t we do something?”

This was his first TV job (he’d spent the last year pretending to like people in a restaurant) and it was definitely not what he’d been expecting.

“To be honest this is pretty normal for Bernard,” the girl said resignedly as a harried looking makeup woman burst from the door brandishing a pair of scissors and lightly steaming straighteners before her like a weapon.

“The surgical mask and safety glasses?” He asked nervously.

“Just a precaution,” she answered cheerfully.

****

Manny watched Bernard nervously for a moment, his new suit sparkled, shimmering, sending ripples of light across the shop. It was also quite tight. Bernard seemed unconcerned by this state of affairs, actually Manny wasn’t quite sure if he had even noticed. At the moment he was focused purely upon finding his cigarettes.

“Where are they? Why are you always hiding my things? Why can you never let anyone be happy just because you’re a hunchbacked toad?” Bernard demanded, stalking around the shop.

Well... it was more of a boutique really, all bright lights and shininess and things that Manny wasn’t sure about. The sort of things that when other people touched them  would make music or bubbles or tea and when Manny touched them exploded. It was like Fran’s shop.

Bernard’s cursing was barely breaking into his consciousness, the pretty flickering lights were floating around him distractedly like small alien thoughts. It wasn’t until Bernard gripped him by the throat and shook him that he remembered the more pressing problem.

“Where are my cigarettes?” Bernard demanded again, his voice was getting worryingly coherent with an edge of desperation. He was definitely sobering up and in the current state of the world that was probably a bad sign. “And why is there no wine?”

“Here, here,” Manny said pulling out the emergency cigarettes, it had been hard to find room for them in the pocket of the tiny shorts. He didn’t even want to think about where he’d concealed the wine.

****

Howard had to admit it was an impressive sulk. Usually it would have ended in a minute or two as Vince was distracted by a butterfly or drops of rainbow sunlight in the dusty air. And if all that failed, Howard could have at least have raided his wardrobe and waved something sparkly in his direction. Unfortunately, the shop was worryingly short of clothes, let alone anything covered in sequins.

Vince was curled up on the sofa, scowling at the piles of books. The scene slightly surreal – between the expression and the shop and the fact that he was dressed scruffily in black. Apparently someone had even tried to cut his hair. Vince had pronounced the fact darkly. Somehow it was all Howard’s fault, though Howard hadn’t quite worked out how yet.

“Come on, Vince,” he tried. “You’re just having a Goth day – I mean, not a Camden Goth – more a thrift store Chav Goth... but it looks good on you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“I’m not sure, I get lost in fashion metaphors, you know that – that’s why I need you around.”

Vince turned away from him. “Naboo’s going to kill you when he sees what you’ve done to the Nabootique.”

Which was another worry. The shop was definitely not itself – all dim colours and darkness and mess... though it had a reassuringly familiar lack of customers. It was like whoever had attacked Vince had then decided to turn it’s hand to interior decorating. A goblin wielding a paintbrush in one hand and a hairdryer in the other...

Howard suppressed a shudder at the image and turned his attention back to Vince.

“I’m not scared of Naboo, I’ll come at him like a ragamuffin cockney pidgeon...”

****

Moving round his desk, Bernard took a deep gulp of wine and a long drag on his cigarette and settled himself onto his chair. Which was gone. Wine spattered across his face, as he collapsed backwards onto the floor and with a grunt of pain swallowed his cigarette.

The burning smoky sensation in his throat was quite pleasant. And familiar.

The room around him slowly swam into focus – horrible fluorescent focus. Bernard sat up slowly and glared at the shop. It was wrong. Very wrong. Obviously the evil conspiracy had caught him at last or it was the hangover monkey. Maybe they had finally joined forces against him. A diabolical alliance designed to ruin his day.

Either way, their plan was working. Everything was all clean and shiny and... “Where are the books?”

Manny was leaning on the other side of the counter, flicking through some loosely bound white pages. He chuckled, the chuckle of an idiot child, grating across Bernard’s soul. “Do you know, it says here that you’re a sunshine child.”

Bernard was only half paying attention, his eyes seeking every corner – every nook and cranny for the perpetrators of this fiendish crime. At least no customers had invaded yet. That would be the next stage in their operations. He’d have to throw up earthworks, build barricades, the armoury would need to be restocked...

“Sunshine? What? Where’s here?”

“In the script.”

“What script? Why are you always speaking nonsense?” He gathered his feet beneath him and lurched upwards, tottering slightly more than was quite right for one bottle of wine. He seemed to be taller too. There was something wrong with his shoes. As delicately as could be managed at such an unwelcoming hour of the morning he lowered his head, one hand against the floor and tried to look at them.

“The script. And it says that I take care of you – at least you got that right.”

“Why do my shoes have lifts?”

With a tinkle the door to the shop opened. Straightening much too quickly with a smoky belch, Bernard found Fran stood in the doorway in some sort of robe, a turban on her head and something tacky and large and glowing green around her neck. The harlot, always trying to distract them from their defences. And his shoes. She must be part of the conspiracy as well. There was no other explanation.

****

“Arrrggghhh.” Howard had finally ventured through the curtain at the back of the shop and found a rubbish dump wearing a poor disguise as a kitchen. His bin man heart shuddered at the sight.

Vince followed him through the door, eyes focused upon the script, he stepped over a pile of used tea bags without even looking at it – feet magically finding the only areas of clean ground – it was like the rubbish fled from him.

“You’re not supposed to be reading that,” Howard warned him. “You know it messes with things.”

“Yeah, but you’ve changed everything.”

“I haven’t changed anything.” Howard’s response was born more out of familiarity than attention, he was focused upon extracting a sock from a nest of old crosswords.

“Oh yeah, well apparently I’m a drunken Irish lout with a forty a day habit called Bernard. I don’t even smoke. And you’re a hairy ape man called Manny.”

The sock came loose at last and Howard straightened proudly, still clutching it – there seemed to be a small fern growing from a hole in the toes – then Vince’s words filtered through to him. He looked at him for a moment, not quite sure what to make of what he was saying

“Manny?” He was just about to reach for the script when Naboo and Bollo burst through the curtain.

They were both wearing identical red dresses.

“What have you done to my shop?” Naboo demanded.

****

The Runner watched as the small one in a dress pivoted slowly, gliding smoothly around and turning his back to the others. He had to admit that it had been a while since he’d watched Black Books (he’d meant to watch some last night, had rented the DVD’s and everything but then Ruth had invited him out and Ruth was, well... you know) – but something just didn’t seem right about this.

Maybe he was imagining things, no one else seemed worried. They were all gathered around the table, mugs of steaming coffee (which he’d made) in their hands, chatting.

“Shouldn’t we be doing something?” He asked one of the friendlier girls quietly.

“Oh no, this is the best part of the day, they’re just setting up the story. Nothing ever really happens, even the cameramen just get the cameras rolling and leave them to it.”

“Err... right.”

“Trust me, enjoy it well it lasts,” she said with a grin, “We’ll be running around like mad things once everything takes off.”

****

“No I just found it,” Fran told Manny, though she wasn’t quite certain she remembered where now. Her fingers traced the edge of the necklace, straying almost temptingly towards the stone at its centre. “Nice isn’t it? You’re looking... unlikely Bernard.”

“My shoes have their own postcode,” he told her with a sort of quiet desperation from the chair he had collapsed into. “There are people living in the heels. They have window boxes and cats and mortgages.”

Fran looked at them for a moment, they were red and shiny with silver bits, she wouldn’t have minded them herself and given his expression, Bernard would probably have gladly let her pry them loose. It was just the prying  that she had a problem with. That and the idea of Bernard’s dripping sweat pooling in the soles...

“They are quite high but I don’t think people are living in them quite yet,” she told him brightly, deciding to stick to her slippers.

Bernard ignored her. “Cigarette,” he said distractedly. “Manny, Manny, cigarette.”

In moments Manny was on his knees beside him – he placed the cigarette between Bernard’s lips and lit it. Bernard let him and then let his head loll sideways with the demeanour of a pale sickly child, wasting away as Manny fussed around him.

Behind them, the door opened with a tinkling bell, and as one they turned to look at it. Individual tableau’s of surprise (Fran), excitement (Manny) and disgust (Bernard). There shouldn’t have even been a bell in the shop – it was one of the things Bernard had outlawed, he thought the sound was too welcoming.

The man stood in the doorway, was slim and goldenly lithe, dressed only in a loincloth with weapons strung about him. His hair rising impressively above his head. Like someone decked out for an apocalyptic carnival or a Mr. World contest.

“I am Banoo, the King of Xooberon has sent me to reclaim the amulet,” even his voice was smooth and as he bowed low, Fran felt a familiar flutter somewhere in her loins. A giggling snort escaping her lips, she turned away in horror.

“Arrgghhhh,” the noise escaping Bernard’s throat as he staggered to his feet was not even remotely close to smooth, it sounded more like a mangled cockerel. “Out. No customers.”

“Naboo,” Banoo said, stepping deftly around Bernard as he stumbled forward. “Why do you turn your back on me?”

 “Naboo?” As pet names went, it seemed a little odd Fran thought as she turned back to face him again.

“You must give me the amulet.”

Fran’s fingers found the necklace with a sudden, unexplainable, feeling of protectiveness. “This?”

“The future of Xooberon lies with the amulet, I must have it. The King always intended it for my hands.”

“Xooberon?” Manny asked as Bernard finally found something approaching balance and descended upon the man. As he passed his hand managed to unnervingly find the chain around her neck and he ripped it painfully loose.

“Bernard!”

“Here,” he said pressing it towards the man. “Here, here, no customers, take it and begone.”

“Bernard!”

Banoo laughed and turned suddenly, startlingly green. A great white polo covered one eye and the hair, still rising impressively above him, had streaked grey. It was an odd transformation, elements of the man they had seen before hidden within it.

“Thank you, squire.” The new Banoo said in a rough cockney accent and pressing his fingers to the glowing green gem, he vanished.

The three of them stood in silent surprise for a moment, Bernard and Manny both with furrowed brows. Then Bernard’s face relaxed. “Hah. Another satisfied customer, bring me wine.”

Fran whacked him hard, sending him tumbling to the ground. “Bernard that was mine.”

****

Naboo and Bollo’s red dresses had managed to distract Vince for roughly two minutes and thirty-five seconds before he realised that neither dress would fit him and neither of their current occupants were planning on vacating. After that he’d descended back into The Sulk.

Howard was not entirely sure when The Sulk had gained its capitalisation, but he was becoming increasingly worried that it would shortly turn into a life form of its own and overrun the shop. Well the bits of the shop that were visible beneath the crumbling remnants of at least a years worth of rubbish.

Apparently there had been some confusion over who was supposed to be wearing the red dress , though both Bollo and Naboo seemed slightly vague on the details of exactly what had dragged them both into transsexualism – although it had evidently been a matter of some contention between the two.

“So how long has he been in this state?” They said together.

Naboo gave Bollo a quelling look. “Don’t make me turn my back on you.”

Bollo just grunted. “It’s not my fault they did not write enough script.”

“About half an hour,” Howard interrupted them sharply, feeling a twinge of annoyance.

“That serious?” Bollo asked quickly before Naboo had a chance.

“He never appreciates anything I do – I cook for him, clean for him, pick out his clothes, wash his hair...” Howard trailed off, there was something definitely not right here, he’d never picked out Vince’s clothes and Vince wouldn’t let him or anyone else near his hair with anything as complicated as a comb, let alone shampoo.

“Well, you shouldn’t do so much for him,” Naboo suggested. “He’d appreciate you a lot more if he...”

“... Had to fend for himself once in a while. When was the last time you did something for yourself Man... Howard?” Bollo interrupted.

“Man Howard? What is this speciesism?”

“You should come out with me,” they said together.

“Could you stop doing that,” Howard asked them, his head was pounding – the world swaying around him – something not quite right. “Anyway, why are you two being nice to me? Shouldn’t you be trying to help Vince?”

Naboo shrugged. “You wrote it. Are you going to come or not?”

“To what?”

“Some sort of self help ‘support’ group – self empowerment and all that.”

As Naboo finished the door to the shop burst open with a crash, revealing someone silhouetted in the doorway. The person strutted into the room and a dozen names flitted through Howard’s already straining mind – Fossil, Lester, The Ape of Death – which seemed a little odd, Rich. One stuck. Eleanor. With a feeling of horror Howard stepped backwards.

Eleanor was wearing another identical red dress, bursting at the seams. As one Bollo and Naboo turned to face her.

“Out!”

****

“OK,” the Runner said, hurrying after the First A.D., “But how did they get from one set to the other? Surely they must have noticed they were in a studio then.”

“It’s like dreaming,” the First A.D. told him, annoyance obvious. “Once the story takes hold they’re not aware of anything that isn’t part of the story – the dream. It’s like those bits in dreams where you’ve gone from one place to another but you don’t know how – like the world’s changed around you – you just don’t remember the bits in between.”

“Right,” the Runner answered, it sort of made sense if he ignored all the bits where it really didn’t. “That sounded like you-”

“I was an actor once,” the First A.D. interrupted him darkly as he checked over the next set of lights. The Runner let him work in silence for a few minutes as a dozen more questions crowded his mind. Eventually he could take it no more.

“But they can see each other across the studio,” he glanced between the two sets.

On the first, the shop, Bernard was tearing the books apart enthusiastically - whilst on the second Manny, Fran and the gorilla (he really didn’t remember there being a gorilla) were milling amongst a gathering of eager anticipation. He felt the First A.D. flinch beside him at the question.

“Have you ever heard of the fourth wall?”

“Yes,” he replied hesitantly (mostly he’d heard about people breaking it).

“Well the fourth wall stops them being able to see each other or us – think of it like a one way mirror or a force field.”

“So what happens if they break the fourth wall?”

“They don’t if we can help it.”

“But surely it must happen sometimes.”

“They’re sometimes vulnerable – when they’re going between sets and all. That’s why the Second A.D. has to be there to look after them.”

Right now the Second A.D., who had been busy ferrying the chosen actors to the new set (muttering something about surprise live animals) had turned back and was watching the shop in some consternation. After a few moments she turned again, looking between the two.

“So how do you make sure that you have all the sets you need?” The Runner turned back to the First A.D.

“Hard work and planning.”

“But what if the story changes whilst you’re filming it, what do you do then?”

“We improvise, there’s usually something we can use – we’ve got all sorts of sets stored here, dozens.”

The Runner stared around the studio – it was big, that was true, an abandoned factory or something, but there was no way it could hold that many sets. “But...”

 “Look, TV studios aren’t quite based in reality. It’s more like the Tardis, much bigger on the inside.”

A sudden horrible thought flitted across the Runner’s mind, he paused mid-step. “Does this mean that when they’re filming, the Tardis is real and all those things on Doctor Who...”

“We don’t pry into other studios secrets – professional courtesy.”

“We have a problem,” the Second A.D. said, breathlessly, appearing beside them. “It’s not them.”

“What?”

“It’s not them – it’s not Bill or Tamsin or Dylan.”

“What?!? Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure – have you seen what he’s doing to Bernard’s books,” they turned to gaze back at the shop – whatever he was doing it seemed to involve paper flares. “And there’s a gorilla.”

The silence was deafening, panic passing across both their faces. “Oh no,” the First A.D. groaned. “This is bad. Where are they? How didn’t you notice?”

“It was a really late night, there may have been alcohol.”

****

Fran had once seen a film of a turtle that had fallen on its back, trying desperately to flip itself back over. It had been animated and charming and sweet and funny and it hadn’t been a patch on watching Bernard struggling to do the same. It had also had an awful lot less swearing.

Thankfully years of dedicated friendship and caring had made Fran adept at blocking out the things Bernard said... and the things he did... and the way he smelt. So she was able to explore the shop in peace, Manny hovering at her shoulder, making noises of surprise and excitement at each new discovery and occasionally ducking when she poked anything too vigorously.

She suspected that it was living with Bernard that had made him so nervous.

“So... so...” Many said after a moment and ten to fifteen floor bound swear words, “Do you think he... that man... do you think he looked a little green?”

“Quite green, yes,” Fran answered him shortly. She’d been using her hard won, Bernard-fuelled skills of suppression to forget that.

All in all it was better just to focus on the important things – things like the fact that Bernard had stolen her stuff. Again.

“And... I mean... Xooberon?”

She picked up something knitted from the shelf. It almost looked like a scarf, except it was far too short. And it was the wrong sort of shape for a hat. She turned it up the other way.

“It’s a trumpet sock,” Manny offered. “For trumpets.”

In the centre of the room Bernard crowed in triumph. He had finally regained his feet and was swaying uncertainly, arms outstretched for balance. “How can anyone walk in shoes like these?” He demanded, finger pointing accusingly in Fran’s direction.

“Practice,” Fran snapped at him.

“You were fine before you realised you were wearing them,” Manny offered, his tone dangerously helpful, it never paid to be helpful around Bernard. “Just pretend you’re in your normal shoes.”

“Look,” Fran said, deciding that forgiveness was a better quality than revenge and obviously made her the better person. She moved towards him, “I’ll show you how.”

Bernard took a precarious step backwards. “Keep that crazy harridan away from me.”

“Fine,” she replied. “You just don’t get to learn the secret woman’s knowledge of shoes.”

“Can I learn the secret woman’s knowledge?” Manny asked.

“Of cour-”

Bernard lurched between them. “No. No. I will not have you corrupting him. It starts with shoes and then you’ll be doing his hair and make-up, parading him in short skirts and low neck sweaters – No!”

“I wouldn’t, Bernard, honest,” Manny pleaded. “It’s just Fran always has really nice shoes and-”

“No!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Fran told him.

“I’m being ridiculous?” Bernard started with the terminal air of the wronged. “I’m being-“

The cough that interrupted him would have been a subtle sign that someone was waiting – at least, it would have been if it hadn’t been a hacking, echoing, roar of a cough made by a small bright  blue man in a tall hat.

 “Arrrgghhh,” they yelled as one.

****

Howard felt the usual blanket of self consciousness settling around him as he waited amongst the unfamiliar crowd. Smothering him. There was something distressingly normal about the flat around them – it was practically suburban. Even the people around them had a disorientating feel of normalcy – none of them even seemed vaguely familiar.

He leaned closer to Naboo. “This isn’t some sort of cult is it?”

“I don’t know,” Naboo snapped at him. He and Bollo still hadn’t made up and everyone in the flat was giving them a wide berth and suspicious looks.

Howard’s fingers tapped a speedy, painful panic across his leg. The waiting was starting to get to him. If this went on much longer, his whole body would start vibrating. He’d look like a man sized vibrator.

“What are we waiting for?” He hissed at them.

“Derek Liliac,” Bollo replied.

“He’s incredible,” Naboo added, not to be outdone.

“I thought you said you didn’t know?”

“It says in the script – ‘He’s incredible, really positive, he just makes everyone feel great, he’ll really do you good.’”

Howard groaned. This was going to be unbearable.

His right foot had begun to tap, odd jazz rhythms echoing along his whole leg, when a ripple of excitement ran through the others as slowly, with the power of true stagecraft, a bead curtain was drawn aside – well, more ripped aside in a tangled mess – and Derek Liliac entered the room. A portly figure in a floor length blue robe.

‘Ah,’ a small part of Howard’s brain thought, ‘Finally, a familiar face.’ Just as the rest of his brain thought – ‘shit’.

“My friends,” Derek Liliac said in an American accent designed to fill the room, “Welcome to my garden of heavenly delights and earthly paradise. Please leave all your bad vibes in the cloakroom. There shall be wine and fruit and singing. And later an orgy... for your senses.”

Definitely, shit.

“Nudity is encouraged,” Liliac continued. As he spoke he moved through the crowd, taking people’s hands, kissing their cheeks, licking them... “We are all beautiful people here... mostly.”

Moving closer and closer.

It was like a horror film – ominous music in Howard’s head, spelling out imminent disaster. Howard’s throat was getting tight, his breathing trying to break the speed limit.

Liliac reached Bollo, claspling his arm. Howard saw it happen in slow motion, a stylised attack.

“Ah,” even Liliac’s voice had slowed down, stretching out like bubblegum, “I see our hairy friend has skipped ahead and is already at the nudity part of the evening. Naughty.”

The room laughed and Howard’s head spun nauseatingly.

“Don’t touch me,” he begged as Liliac stepped towards him.

“Buuuuttttt.... weeerrr’eee... aaaalllll.... faammmillly... heeerrrreee...”

And then he was enclosed in arms, trapped in a hug, the world spinning out of control.

****

Bernard recovered first. He lunged forward, gripping one of the mysterious objects from a shelf, one that Fran hadn’t had a chance to identify yet, and began to beat the blue man with it.

It wasn’t, truth be told, a very fair fight. Bernard probably only managed to get in two strikes before the blue man had knocked him onto his back, again. Manny met Fran’s eyes for a second and sort of twitched. It was a voluminous wordy twitch. It was a twitch that said:- _‘Should we?’_

“KUSHUNDA!” The blue man cried and around him, more blue men popped up – appearing from behind displays and sliding into view. One even spun down from the ceiling.

They were tall blue men. Tall dangerous blue men. Manny’s next nose wrinkle definitely said:- _“Maybe not.”_

The little man bowed his head slightly. “My delicious Chosen One - we may have been a little hasty before. I am flattered by the bruises you grant me and ask that you forgive us our folly and aid us in our time of need.”

He leant towards Bernard, still sprawled on the floor and lifted one of his hands. Carefully, almost reverentially, he ran his tongue along the back of it. Fran and Manny both grimaced.

The man froze, tongue still on Benard’s skin and a look of deep pain in his startled eyes. Pulling backwards sharply, his tongue hung limply for a second outside his mouth and he began to cough, choking against the taste, retching. The sound grating against the startled silence in the shop.

It was a good five minutes before he was able to speak again – five minutes of Fran rubbing his hand and soothing him gently, whilst Manny provided damp towels and cigarettes and camomile tea and a soothing lullaby played on a lute. Bernard, thankfully, was still staring at the back of his own hand in some disgust – leaving them in peace.

At last the blue man seemed ready and Fran thought it was probably time to broach the difficult subject at hand.

“Did you say you needed Bernard’s help?” Fran asked him, trying to imbue the words with the sheer weight of their irrationality.

“Yes, the Chosen One is our only hope,” the man told them. “We have travelled across many galaxies to find him. The fate of Xooberon lies in his hands.”

“Hup, Xooberon again,” Manny muttered to her beneath his breath.

“The evil Hitcher, who you so bravely liquidised on your previous visit, seeped into our water system and has infected many on the planet-”

“This Hitcher?” Manny interrupted. “He wouldn’t be green would he?”

“Yes, with one powerful white eye – he is a formidable enemy to all on Xooberon.”

“How did you know that?” Fran asked him quietly.

“Hunch – plus that man before had an impressive thumb span.”

They turned back to look at the man with bright smiles. “And how do you think Bernard can help exactly?”

“It was he who last held the amulet, and though he lost it, we thought he might have found it again. You know, behind the wardrobe or under the bed or in the cat... The amulet alone has the power to defeat the Hitcher. With its power we may return to Xooberon and liberate the planet.”

There was a long pause.

“Err...” Manny said, “What would happen if this Hitcher got the amulet?”

“He would be able to return to his own form and the whole planet would fall beneath his sway.”

“Ah.”

Fran turned to Bernard, ready to whack him again and found instead an empty space. Horrifyingly – he’d gone.

****

The Runner was starting to feel twitchy, they’d been sat around the table for a good seven minutes already – nobody talking. In the end seat, the Director was looking pale and concerned, and the others were reacting little better. He had no idea why they were all freaking out so much, they’d worked out who these guys were – the Mighty Boosh or something – it was just a driver mix-up. The wrong actors taken to the wrong show.

“Why don’t we just push them in a car and take them to the right studio?” He asked, able to take it no more.

“They can’t leave the studio,” the First A.D.’s tone was dull, “They’d wake up.”

“Well... isn’t that a good thing? I mean we could just go and give them a shake explain what’s happened, do the swap and start again.”

“You can’t just shake them out of it,” the man was starting to sound slightly panicked. “It’s like... you know how you’re not supposed to wake sleep walkers?”

The Runner nodded. (Technically, he had no idea what the man was talking about but he usually found if he pretended he did and went along with things, he’d work it out sooner or later).

“Well this is much, much worse. You end up with someone who’s half character and half real and half stuck in a story.” (It was probably a bad idea to point out right now that that was too many halves.) “Why do you think so many actors end up in rehab? If we wake them up now we’d practically be scrambling their brains – we’d lose at least a week of shooting.”

There was a horrible silence, as everyone considered the rescheduling.

“What about musicians?” The Runner asked.

“What?”

“Musicians. Why do they end up in rehab?”

“I don’t know – drugs, drink, syphilis.” The First A.D. lurched upwards, practically throwing himself across the table, his hands gripped the front of The Runner’s t-shirt. “This is no time for questions!” Each word was punctuated with a shake.

“Oh, for god’s sake, you leave men alone for five minutes,” the Second A.D. skidded back into the room, throwing herself into the chair next to the First and forcibly pressing him back into his own seat. “I can’t get through to the Mighty Boosh studio – it just goes straight to voice mail, I’ve left a message.”

She threw the mobile into the centre of a table, where it skittered and spun for a second, everyone’s eyes upon it. Their lost hope.

“How are they?” The Director asked.

“Not much different – they’ve started singing at the flat and the one in the bookshop seems to be redecorating the place. He found paints somewhere, god knows where.” She slumped further into her chair and groaned. “This is not a good day to have a hangover.”

Two more minutes dragged by, without even the pretence of conversation... or planning. Two minutes of silent panic or spiralling fear or, in the Runner’s case, boredom. (It was also entirely too long for him to consider the number of ways that everything they’d been saying was insane - he was half starting to think that this was an elaborate set up and someone would be jumping out with a hidden camera at any moment.)

At any rate, it was a blessed relief when the phone began to ring, loud and shrill and dancing in circles around the table. The Second A.D. snatched it up, pain and headache forgotten.

 “Hello?... Yes... yes.... No we’ve got them here.... Wait, let me put you on speaker phone.”

The voice crackling out of the other end, sounded, if possible, even more panicked than them. “Sorry about the voice mail – we’ve had to put the studio into lock down. Safety. Are the guys alright?”

“Yeah, not much has happened here yet. They’re all fine.”

There was a sigh of relief from the other end. “Thank god. We really need them back here.”

“Likewise.”

“No, I don’t think you understand –the other characters, they’re starting to escape. Some of them are a bit... weird. It’s like-”

The words came out in hurried snaps and bursts and in the distance they caught the muffled sounds of screams and bangs and shouting.

“I thought that these guys played all the parts,” the First A.D. interrupted, “How can there still be other characters?”

“It’s complicated. Julian and Noel, they’re the creators – it means they... well, there’s always a bit of them that’s still them – they keep the others in control, mostly. Without them here... we really need them back.”

“Like Bernard,” one of the others suggested. “Not that I mean he’s in control. More, like the story revolves around him and the other characters. He holds it all together.”

“Yeah,” the girl said through the phone. “Sort of.”

“What’s happened to Bernard anyway?” The First A.D. asked.

“He’s stolen a flying carpet.” It was said with a sort of horrified surrender.

****

“I think you’re supposed to breath out as well, Manny,” Fran told him, her voice unreasonably calm.

Above the crumpled curve of the paper bag, Manny could see her attempting to light her cigarette again, hand curled around it protectively against the wind. He sucked in another deep breath and  
the paper bag shrank some more and, for a desperate fleeting second, he wondered if it was possible to accidentally swallow one.

“You should relax. Try to enjoy it,” Fran said, with a happy sigh, smoke curling from her lips as the wind snatched the whole cigarette from her fingers this time.  It flew past him, trailing ashy grey smoke behind it – drawing patterns between the stars and intimate planets as they passed.

Planets! He could see some of their rings. The moons surrounding them. And then there was the other moon, the really big close moon. He was trying not to look at that one – it was grinning at him. He could take it no more.

“Relax? Relax?” His voice was squeakier than he would have liked but there was no time to concern himself with that now. “We’re flying. On a carpet. With patches. And Bernard is driving!”

At the front of the horribly thin piece of material, Bernard was tugging at the edges, cursing steadily.

“I don’t think technically he’s driving it, it seems mostly to be doing what it wants.”

Oh gods, they were on a magic carpet with a mind of its own.

“That isn’t any better.”

The bag deflated a little more.

“Really?” Fran asked, sounding genuinely surprised. “Between Bernard and an autopilot – I know which one I’d prefer.”

Manny shot her an angry look – well, as angry as he could manage with his head swimming from oxygen deprivation and his hair tangling around him. He suspected that mostly what he looked like was an electrified hamster.

It was several more minutes before Manny’s mind had recovered sufficiently, his breathing slowing, to consider the next problem – well, not so much problem, as nightmare. He dragged in another deep breath, paper tickling the back of his throat. In and in and in...

“Breath out, Manny.” Fran ordered him again and with difficulty Manny pulled the bag from his mouth.

“Did you see them? Them? The blue people and... and the green people. What were we drinking? How are you so calm?”

Fran was silent for a second, considering the question. “After a while around Bernard you find out it’s just easier to let everything wash over you – you just have to remember to hold your nose.”

“But... but... green people?”

“Well, I thought the blue people were quite nice.”

“But they were blue.”

“You’re being very closed minded about this, Manny. I’d expect more from you. I mean look at Bernard, he’s taking everything in his stride. Which in those boots is no mean feat.”

They both turned to look at Bernard, hunched against the cold, suit sparkling in the moonlight, still yanking meaninglessly at the corners of the rug. “Arrrrggggghhhh. Arse,” he cried suddenly throwing the corners aside and almost at once they began to plummet – air whipping past them.

Fran yelled and Manny, horrified, tried to pull the paper bag back to his mouth but it was ripped in shreds from his fingers. Bernard, typically, seemed nonplussed.

“No, no, no,” Fran threw herself forward, sliding precariously downwards until she reached Bernard, gripping him, “Pick it up, pick them back up!”

Manny shuffled forwards more carefully, reaching for the both of them. The ground was rushing towards him at horrible speed – all yellow sand and blurring blue mountains.

“No,” Bernard was saying petulantly, “It won’t do anything I tell it, like everyone else around here. No respect.”

“But we’re going to crash.”

The ground was very close, really really close. “Fran... Fran...”

“Not now, Manny. Bernard pick it up!”

It was as it happened a very gentle crash, the carpet sort of paused, throwing them, rolling, to the ground as it crumpled around them. They fell into each other, a tangle of legs and carpet, smothered in yellow dust, with a grunt.

“Well, well, well, my pretties,” a familiar voice said above them. A cockney voice. They crawled out, freeing their heads and looked as one up at the figure. Not the man from the shop but the same green skin, lank grey hair, the white polo around his eye. “Ah what a sight for my powerful peeper.”

In his hand, swinging mesmerisingly from side to side, was Fran’s necklace. Around him were a multitude, they stepped slowly forward out of shadows that should not have existed in such an open landscape. All green, all grinning, all menace.

“Banoo has told me all about you slags. Here to cause trouble. Well I like trouble. Welcome to my wonderful world.”

The Hitcher spread his arms wide and his subjects descended.

****

“Are you the Director?” Their own Director asked. Which was all sorts of typical, the Second A.D. thought, rolling her eyes.

“No, I’m in props... no... ummm... no.... he was Hitcherised.” The Props Girl answered.

“Hitcher-?”

“He’s sort of green and evil now. Most the people are. There are only a couple of us left.”

“And we thought we were having problems,” the Second A.D. said quietly and then spoke louder. “Are you safe?”

“Yes, I think so – we’re locked in one of the dressing rooms. Well, more barricaded. You’d be surprised how many things you can find in a stylists arsenal, that can be turned into an offensive weapon. We just need to get Noel and Julian back as quickly as possible.”

“That’s going to be difficult, they’re already trapped in the story. We can’t just drag them out of it.”

There was a slightly desperate silence.

“Is there a way to end the story quicker?” The Prop Girl asked after another moment. “I mean what story are you doing?”

The First A.D. took the question. “It’s pretty simple really – the gang get drawn into a suicide cult.”

“A suicide cult!?!?”

“Don’t worry, Bernard goes in and saves the day. Well... I mean he would if he was here and not piloting home furnishings. I guess one of your guys will have to do it now.”

They heard the girl pull in a deep breath. “Alright, which one of them is playing Bernard?”

“Errr... the vain one?”

“Vince? Oh no, oh no no no... this isn’t good... Vince couldn’t save someone from a paper bag.”

“Look,” one of the others interrupted. “I’ve seen the Mighty Boosh – Vince is always going in and saving Howard. All the time.”

“Yes, in very carefully orchestrated scenarios. How is it supposed to happen?”

“Well, they poison the wine and Bernard drink’s both the others and won’t let them have any... it’ll be funnier in context.”

“So you’re saying, that you want Vince to drink a bottle of poisoned wine? How the hell is he supposed to survive that?”

“In the original script, Bernard has practically pickled himself – he’s like Keith Richards – survive anything.”

“Isn’t that a little far fetched?”

Another pause as the A.D.’s exchanged heavy glances. The First A.D. leaned in closer to the phone.

“Your Director is green.”

“Fair point – well that’s it then. We’re doomed. Vince will never survive that and god knows what will happen if this lot get loose of the studio.”

They each sank into dark thoughts, contemplating what they’d unleashed on the unwitting world. The budgets weren’t designed to cover the cost of a global disaster.

“Maybe it’s not all lost,” a quiet voice suggested from the side of the room, the Script Editor. “I mean, the scripts vague – we wanted to leave it open - that maybe the cult were sort of normal but Bernard’s influence inspired them to suicide – give people something to discuss – maybe if someone else is there they’ll be inspired to something different.”

“You want us to rely on a vagary in the script?” The First A.D. asked.

“Well,” the Prop Girl said from the end of the line, “It’s not like we have any other options. Just try and be fast alright.”

****

It would be, the Runner suspected, an odd image for an outsider. Six of them stood in a line, heads cocked watching a grown man dance around a bookshop, paper page cloak flying around him, in a crackling swirl of words.

“What I really want to know,” the Second A.D. said, with the world weariness of someone who’s hangover still showed no sign of abating. “Is where he found the coconuts.”

“Not to mention the tea towels, I don’t think the shops ever seen a cleaning product before.”

“Well there was that episode in series one, you know the one with the crazy guy…”

“Are you suggesting the tea towels have been lurking behind the books, hiding in cupboards, that they’ve been stalking around the kitchen in feral gangs-”

“You’re starting to sound a little hysterical.”

“What I really want to know,” the Director interrupted in a dead tone, “Is when he’s going to rush to the rescue.”

It was true that there was very little that could be described as rushing going on, Vince seemed  perfectly happy occupying himself. He’d found some paints from somewhere and was currently decorating the shop. In between talking and laughing with the coconuts.

“Bernard is going to kill… everybody, when he gets back.”

Across the studio, things seemed to be rapidly deteriorating. A guitar had appeared from somewhere and the whole crowd had started to sing, with horribly cheerful voices, eyes manic. There was something slightly unnatural about people being that happy.

“I mean, Bernard would have already spent half an hour moaning, drank all the wine, kidnapped a small child and dressed it as Manny, been arrested and burnt the shop down, if he’d been left alone this long,” the Director continued. “At this rate they’re going to be passing out the sacrificial wine before he’s even arrived.”

“Only if-”

“Yes, we know,” the First A.D. snapped. “Anyway even if it was Bernard’s influence, I’ll sodding kill them. Is there anything we can do to stop them singing?”

“Couldn’t someone just go in and drag him to the other set?” The Runner suggested.

“No – it’s too tricky. If you go onto the set, it’s like... well, it’s like the only way they can see you is if they make you into part of their story, so you make sense – if you go in and grab him, he’ll think you’re kidnapping him and god knows what he’ll do.”

The Runner considered this for a moment. “Alright, well then let’s pretend we are part of the story, we can go in-”

They turned as one, with horrified expressions, staring at him. Even the Director snapped out of his trance. “Do you know how dangerous that is?”

“He’s new,” the First A.D. told him, with a tone that suggested it was a status akin to being a leper.

“Ah,” the Director said sadly, turning back to watch the bookshop again.

“Look,” the Second A.D. said, hand wrapping around his arm, “If we go in there, we can get dragged in too – we become like one of them. You heard what was happening at the Boosh studio – they’re all getting lost in the story.”

They’d had a call about twenty minutes before from the Props Girl, things had sounded desperate at the other end of the line, and she’d told them, tight voiced, that she was going to head out and see what was happening. No one seemed to be holding out much hope of hearing from her again.

The thought that he might be sucked into the show was enough to send shudders down his spine, which the Runner suspected meant he had spent far too long with these people. (Or that he was tired, that could be it. Overworked. Stress.)

“It might not be a bad idea though,” the First A.D. said, “I mean we’re not exactly going to miss him and at least it might get things moving again.”

The Runner felt a moment of satisfaction, a sense of pride in his ‘good idea’ and then the last rational part of his brain (the part that was sitting in the corner whimpering) caught up with him. “What?”

“Good point,” the Second A.D. this time, fingers still warm on his arm (and he had been starting to think about liking her).

“What?!” He asked again, desperately.

“Well,” the First A.D. took his other arm. “All we need you to do is to pretend you’re a member of the cult who is having second thoughts and has come to warn... Vince that his friends are in danger. It’s very simple.”

The two A.D.s were already pushing him forward, towards the awning mouth of the bookshop.

“But... but... but you said it was dangerous.”

The First A.D. laughed falsely. “Dangerous? It’s only a TV show – there’s no real danger.”

“But it’s a _suicide _cult.”

They almost paused, midstep, he could feel the trembling slight hesitation, but it was so brief that it could scarcely have been visible to the outside world, then they were moving again.

“Look,” the Second A.D. said warmly, “You’ll be absolutely fine, all you have to do is keep thinking of yourself as ‘The Runner’ – that gives you protection, it sets you outside the story. Just remember you’re ‘The Runner’.”

“But I wasn’t volunteering for this.”

“Oh honey, if you were looking for a job that’s noble and fair – you really shouldn’t have come into TV.”

****

It was, Vince was forced to admit, not the most lively party he’d thrown. It was that outfit he’d been wearing, he still couldn’t remember how he had ended up in it – but it had seriously messed with his mind. Even his hair had been drooping. And the world had seemed dim and dull and dusty.

Thankfully things were slowly fading back into the multi-coloured blur of normalcy, the paints had definitely been a vital discovery.

At least nobody he knew had seen him. Well other than Howard and Naboo and Bollo... but they didn’t really count. He had a small niggling doubt in the back of his mind, brain cell kicking in, a feeling he should be apologising to Howard for something.

“Hey, Howard!” No reply.

Vince had grown sort of used to Howard ignoring him but only when he was in sight, writing. 

“Howard?”

He looked around the shop, concern finally beginning to edge around his general happiness. And the door opened - a flustered, badly dressed young man stumbling in as if he had been pushed. He blanched, face slightly green and froze. Vince watched him, stock still, eyes darting in panic towards the shops window. It was like when Howard got the Chokes all over again.

“You alright?” Vince asked him.

Nothing. With a shrug Vince abandoned him and headed back into the kitchen. He returned a few minutes later, having rescued two mugs from the mess and brewed them both tea, to find the boy still trapped in the same position.

His eyes darted again to the window.

“You know,” Vince told him, “You remind me a bit of Howard.”

The guy seemed to shudder into life.

“Howard?” He asked, voice tight and unnaturally high and then suddenly he began to talk.

Well, Vince thought it was talking. Usually when he felt this confused it meant that the other person was using long words, but this time he wasn’t sure that there were even any words. It was more a series of noises punctuated by strange hesitations and stutters all delivered at top speed.

It wasn’t until the green of the boy’s skin had started to shade towards blue and Vince was wondering if a well timed Jazz slap was in order that he even paused for a breath.

 “Oh God,” he carried on, in a slightly more normal tone, “I’m talking too fast, aren’t I? I always get nervous when I’m on a... a... a...”

“You weren’t really talking at all,” Vince told him. “Mostly you were just squeaking. Tea?”

“Thanks,” the boy said. “I’ve just been having a really bad day.”

“I can see,” Vince replied sinking onto the sofa – it was brown but not entirely uncomfortable. The boy sank down beside him, cradling the cup in trembling fingers.

“I mean, there’s been so much to take in and then there was all this... wait, what do you mean you can see?”

“Well, it’s your outfit.”

“My outfit?”

“Yeah, it’s just awful. Anyone would have a bad day dressed like that. It was like me this morning-” Vince paused, heart pounding, this morning had already taken on the illusion of nightmare. It wasn’t one he particularly wanted to revisit. “You shouldn’t let people dress you like that. Biscuit?”

It was probably best not to think about where he’d found the biscuits. Still, things he wanted always seemed to show up sooner or later.

The boy took the biscuit gratefully, fingers delving into the crinkly packet. He dunked it into the tea. “Actually I didn’t _let _anyone dress me, I sort of did it myself.”

“Oh dear, this is worse than I thought,” Vince took his hand, rubbing it sympathetically and the man gave him a worried look. A sudden spark of inspiration lit in Vince’s mind, a firefly spinning through the night. “Wait here a second.”

If the kitchen was a horror film, the upstairs of the shop was definitely a mystery. It looked like somebody had split the flat in half – practically a line down the middle affair – one half meticulously neat, the other a sprawling monstrosity. In the bathroom, he found an old, battered hairdryer. Far below his normal standards but it was a start.

 Ten minutes later he was back downstairs, belts strapped across each shoulder, crossing, bristling with tools. Striking an impressive pose. “I’m the Caped ReStyler and I’ve come to make you over.”

The boy glanced back at the window again. “Errr... alright.”

The boy it turned out was a talker, which was fine, Vince had tuned him out within five minutes, instead his own personal mix tape played in his head as he ran his hands through his hair. _“I am electro boy, I am electro girl...”_

It was the secret skill of the hairdresser, passed down to him from an ancient mystic stylist high in the mountains. And it was nice, for once, to be using his powers, gifted to him in sacred ceremonies, on someone awake.

****

“What the hell is he doing?” The First A.D. snapped, “I mean the tea was bad enough.”

He took a gulp of his own coffee, glaring at the set, this was just ridiculous. Somehow they’d managed to turn the shop into a hairdressers. Vince hands deep in suds, jigging around and occasionally striking a pose as the Runner moaned on and on and on.

 “Anyway that’s not really it,” the Runner was saying. “I mean it’s just all these people. They’re all mad.”

“Typical.”

“I mean they want me to call myself ‘The Runner’ – like I’m not allowed my own identity. Well screw them, I’m not The Runner. My name’s Ben.”

“Shit,” the Second A.D. swore.

Before them The Runner, _‘Ben’_, had stiffened in the chair, a familiar shudder running along the length of his body.

“He’s gone.” The sigh ran through them all, defeat setting in. The world was probably doomed.

“What now.”

The Runner turned in the chair, suddenly seizing Vince’s hands. Wrapping them in his own.

“Your friends are in terrible danger.”

“That might work,” the Second A.D. suggested. “Get ready to grab them.”

****

_“We like sunshine and daisies and kittens,  
Marshmallow clouds and strawberry rain  
The world is a place of sunshine-ey wishes  
And we’ll sing you this song, again and again...”_

Howard was soaking, cold prickly sweat running down his skin, even his eyes, he could barely see through the sticky liquid. He was going to explode, if he had to pretend to be happy any longer he was going to explode.

Maybe he should kill them all first. It would be safer. A killing spree would only hurt the people in the room, an explosion might take out the whole city. Anyway some of them might survive, if they led down and played dead.

“I’m going to kill them all,” he hissed to Naboo. Bollo was already dancing around the room with the others. He had always been the most susceptible. “Why did you bring me here?”

“I thought you might like it,” Naboo replied with a shrug.

“How? Why would I ever like this? I like jazz and self flagellation and the dark torture of the soul....”

Howard broke off, Derek Liliac was moving towards them at speed, through the dancing figures. “Either someone’s working on a personal ad or you’re not feeling our chill.”

The words were delivered with the cloying patronism of the possessed. Howard would probably get a medal if he killed him. Liliac moved around them, well... skipped would be a more accurate term. And suddenly, without warning – his hands were on Howard’s shoulders, kneading them.

Before the fingers had even reached the material of his shirt, Howard was flinching – that familiar feeling, as if his own neck was trying to tear it’s way through to the other side of his body, twisting itself inside out.

“Don’t touch me!”

He squirmed away from him.

“Calm down, my tense friend, I’m just trying to help you release the knots in your chakras,” Liliac was moving towards him with an evil glint in his eye.

“There will be no releasing around me, no sir,” Howard warned him, stepping backwards through the crowd, finger raised threateningly. Liliac followed him, a red glow had appeared from somewhere – highlighting his features and the way his hair peaked like horns either side of his head.

“But you’re a stain upon the world – your misery spreading out and infecting us all. People like you are the reason that there are fires and murder and kittens dying! Miaow. Think of the kittens, Howard. You should be washed out.”

Liliac’s voice had developed strange harmonics, rising in pitch, to an almost desperate screech with heavy, deep undertones. It echoed through his soul, like fingernails against a chalk board. With a shock, Howard’s back hit the wall. He was trapped – pinned.

Liliac’s hands were outstretched like claws coming towards him. Fingers almost touching his face.

“I’m too young to die! I’ve got too much to give!”

And the door was flung open, multicoloured light spilling through it, moving across their faces in kaleidoscopic glory – entrancing all the dancers, spelling them into stillness. Even Liliac turned, his face relaxing back into doughy peacefulness.

And the lights silhouetted a figure, dramatically posed, slowly he blurred into focus – moving smoothly into the room, gliding – a hairdryer in his hand. It was Vince.

“I am the Caped Restyler and I have come to save you all.”

****

“It’s not my fault,” Fran snapped as they were marched through the green faces, there were hundreds of them. “_I _didn’t give away the amulet.”

“Oh yes, it’s always my fault,” Bernard tried to throw his arms in the air, possibly Manny thought trying to express his annoyance through modern dance. It was not an entirely successful gesture, given that all their hands had been bound by rope. Instead what Bernard managed to do was to whack himself in the face with a roar of rage and then, feet tangling in the trailing ropes, stumble forward. The boots didn’t help either.

Not that it stopped the rant. Nothing could stop the rant.

“The shop is on fire! Blame Bernard! All the wine is gone! Blame Bernard! Manny’s stapled his hair to his toenails! Blame Bernard! I don’t know why I bother. I raised you like my own children – nurtured you, dragged you from the gutters you belong in and this abuse is all the thanks I get.”

“You did staple Manny’s hair to his toenails,” Fran pointed out, “And you gave away the talisman.”

“And you stole the carpet,” Manny added.

“Quiet Manny!”

Somewhere near them a whip cracked, driving them further forwards into the light. They blinked, eyes sore and dusty, emerging into a vivid world. They were on some sort of platform, built like a cake, layer after layer, growing smaller and smaller, until you reached the one they were upon. A shiny blue castle rose behind them, all twisting spires and ridiculous upside down staircases and before them was a sea of green and staring white polo eyes.

They paused, the sight trembling before them for a second.

“I don’t like it Bernard,” Manny could feel the panic beginning to rise again. “Do something about it, Bernard.”

“Yes, Bernard, do something,” Fran hissed.

For a long moment, Bernard didn’t move, didn’t react and then he turned to them slowly, eyes dishevelled and hair wild and dangerous. “What would you both like me to do exactly?”

“Errr...”

Another figure was shoved out beside them, a stumbling man in a long robe, glossy locks flowing beneath a crown. He was also, wonderfully, not green.

“I’ll be having them lovely jewels,” The Hitcher said, plucking the coronet from the man’s head as he emerged behind them. He perched it over his top hat and stepped forwards to greet the adoring crowd. “Welcome my lovelies,” a roar of greeting, “Let’s see what we have here. It seems it’s time for a right royal hanging and you’re all the guests of honour...”

The recently de-crowned man leaned forward, bound hands clutching at Fran’s dress. Her turban was slightly askew now. “Naboo, why did you let the talisman fall into this monsters hands.”

“No, no, no... it wasn’t me it was Bernard, he-” Fran tried to explain.

“We have no time for this. You might yet save us all, you must listen to my commands-“

“Commands? Who are you? Coming in here, bossing me about in my own shop!” Bernard interrupted. The crowd roared again as the Hitcher skipped past them, dancing across the dais.

“I’m the King,” the man straightened noticeably, cocking his head so his hair caught the light. Sending bright refractions flaring through the air. Something was niggling at Manny’s mind.

“Your majesty,” he asked, hopefully, “your majesty, how is it that you’re not... green.”

“The power of Folk protected me.”

“Ah...”

“I see it protects you also my children, it is lucky that Folk blooms so strongly in all our bosoms,” as he said it, he pressed his hand against each of their chests.

“Folk? Commands? King?” Bernard looked like he was building up to another rant.

“What did you need us to do,” Fran interrupted, glancing down in bemusement at the hand pressed to her breast, “King?”

“I need you to Crimp, the greatest Crimp of your lives. An all-mighty Crimp that will awake my citizens from this curse.”

“Crimp?”

“Right,” a voice said behind them and they turned to find a short girl, skin still white, dark hair messily tied up, with a bandana around her head. She grinned at them, shrugging with a wink and in seconds was legging it in the other direction.

****

“It’s…” the Second A.D. tried, words trailing away.

“Yeah, it’s… very… yeah.”

They were silent for a few seconds longer. Staring in curious bemusement.

“I… I didn’t expect there to be so much glitter.”

“Or feathers.”

Watching Vince makeover the cult had been sort of mesmerising. Like watching a very focused and sparkly hurricane – leaving ripped and reborn clothing and carefully coiffured hair in its wake. And glitter, there really was a lot of glitter – and sequins.

In the middle of it all, grinning, dressed in vibrant colours and swaying slightly to the music was the Runner. The sight of him, produced a complex series of emotions in the Second A.D. – though, it had to be admitted, the strongest was definitely embarrassment.

“At least it’s definitely not a suicide cult,” the Director said with a sigh. “All things considered it could have been much worse.”

Besides her, she heard the First A.D. mutter:- “Don’t be so sure, if I was forced to look like that for longer than three minutes there would almost certainly be violence.”

She smothered a laugh as silence descended on them again. It was relaxing, the quiet slowing of their panic. There hearts finally beating at a normal pace. Possibly too relaxing, she had no idea how long they stood like that – it was only the sudden ringing of the phone, shuddering though them like an electric shock, that snapped them back to themselves.

It was a moment before they even thought to answer it. The Director just stared at it, nestled in his hand, vibrating slightly. She rescued it, snatching it from his hand

“Hello?”

“Hi,” it was the Prop Girl, breathless but still alive.

“Oh my god, you’re alright.”

“Such lack of faith.” The girl laughed. “Trust me, I’m good.”

“Clearly,” the Second A.D. felt a familiar stirring in the pit of her stomach. “I’m impressed. And you’re not green?”

“No… well, mostly no… there was a drunken tattoo incident which involved some green a few years ago. Though I’m not telling you where – you’d have to at least buy me a drink first.”

The Second A.D. laughed this time.

“Look,” the First A.D. interrupted, “You two can flirt later. What’s happening?”

“Sort of hard to condense, it’s gone a bit mad – but in brief, your guys are about to make a lovely sacrifice.”

“You could try being less cheerful about it.”

“Come on, we work in comedy – surely you’re surrounded by enough people shrouded in misery, to appreciate the change. Anyway, I’ve been all intrepid reporter and know how to get us all out  
of this.”

“Alright,” the First A.D. groaned, “Count us both chastised and impressed and tell us what we need to do.”

And then she told them. Which mostly involved complicated explanations and the sound guys getting excited and words that didn’t make much sense, like crimping (which apparently had nothing to do with eighties hair styles) and also seemed to feature a worrying amount of them throwing themselves into the line of fire, so to speak.

“Oh well,” the Second A.D. sighed ten minutes later and mic’ed to high heaven, “At least we might get a hair cut out of it.”

The First A.D. shot her a dark look, his own hair practically bristling with barely concealed annoyance. “You say that as if it’s a good thing.”

****

“Don’t touch me.”

“Come on, Howard,” Vince said with a grin taking another step forward, “Just a little hairspray and maybe a trim. I’ve done everyone else.”

He raised his eyebrows, enjoying the feel of the innuendo. It had, despite all the omens this morning, been a good day. And he’d been itching for an opportunity to give Howard a makeover since they were twelve – there was only so much he could achieve with his night time scissoring’s.

“No,” Howard raised his hand, warding him off firmly, “No sir, I am no sheep. Howard Moon does not sully himself with the petty concerns of the masses. No hair spray has ever touched a single hair on-“

“You used it when you were trying to impress the Goth Girls,” Vince interrupted him cheerfully. Howard paused.

“That was different.”

“Yeah? Come on I did save your life.” Another pause, longer this time. Nearby somebody was plucking experimentally on a guitar. It looked like it might turn into a good party, well better than the one at the shop anyway.

“I... you didn’t. I was fine. I... I was about to take him out. Put some Howard Moon moves on him, I would-“

Vince laughed. “‘Take him out?’ I heard you, you were screaming like a seahorse – ‘I’m too young to die’.”

“Seahorses don’t scream,” Howard told him slowly.

“Yeah? What about the famous Screaming Seahorses of Neptune.”

“The Screaming Seahorses of Neptune? Is it possible you’ve made them up.”

“I’ve seen them.”

“You’ve seen them? You went all the way to Neptune, a planet made almost entirely of ice and-”

“No, I saw them when they came on tour. They were supporting Pluto’s Pole-dancing Poodles. They’re coming back in May.”

“Oh yes? Who are they supporting this time, Mars’ Marvellous Monkeys?” As Howard finished, across the room the guitar finally settled into a familiar tune and one by one voices began to sing.

“_I love the chosen one  
Loving him is fun, fun, fun  
I love the chosen one  
Not as much as me.”_

Howard groaned as they started in on the next verse and the door burst open, a strange mixture of people and goblins spilling through. Some of them were clutching pieces of paper and shaking nervously, the centres of attention.

“Thank god,” Howard said.

“Trouble on Xooberon,” one of them declared dramatically, arm extending. The others shot him an exasperated look.

“Directors,” one of the girls said and stepped forward. “Look, the Hitcher’s taken over Xooberon and we really need you to crimp. As long as it’s not something rude and doesn’t involve nudity.”

****

“If that was a rescue attempt,” Fran said as they watched the girl flee, “Then I think you should strongly reconsider your hiring policy.”

Manny turned back to the King. “Crimp?” He asked again. “Like the styling, wavy hair, fluffy thing?”

“No, you know... the Crimps, the word rhymes, the silly words and...”

The King trailed off, eyes searching each of their faces in hopeful, fearful desperation. He turned at last, pleadingly, to Fran. “Naboo, you at least must remember, Crimping is an ancient...”

“What the hell is going on with this Naboo rubbish?” Fran demanded, her patience beginning to wear thin. She was dusty and itchy and annoyed and the turban was heavy and the whole thing was ridiculous. The crowd of green polo things roared again, followed by a wave of manic laughter rippling through them and into the distance until it was almost an echo.

She’d have decided by now that this was a very annoying dream, only even her subconscious wouldn’t have come up with that outfit for Bernard.

“Bernard, Bernard?” Manny said quietly pulling at his sleeve as best he could.

“...form of celebration, a Xooberonian expression of joy and happiness.” The King continued. “Crimping alone will penetrate this disease and allow my citizens to-”

“No, no, no,” Bernard cut him off sharply, ignoring Manny. “I’m not letting you drag us into some godforsaken dispute. I’ll have no one using the goodness of my heart against me. I’ve already been robbed and assaulted and kidnapped-”

“Technically,” Fran pointed out, “You did all that to yourself... actually mostly you did it to me and Manny.”

“No!” Bernard shouted, waving his bound hands at her in a frantic, pseudo-aggressive style. She gave him the look – the beaky look – and he glared back at her.

“Fran?” Manny tried, but she ignored him. She was not going to lose a grimace contest with Bernard.

“We’re going back to the shop,” he told her determinedly, “Where there are books and cigarettes and wine and dead flies and all the things that make the world wonderful and Manny will cook us dinner. And that’s the end of it.”

“Bernard?” Manny said again.

“How?” Fran asked him.

“Arrrggghhh, must I think of everything?”

“Bernard?”

“What? What!” Bernard rounded on Manny ferociously.

“What?” Fran joined him. There was something much more satisfying about taking your anger out on Manny instead of Bernard, it was less like running head first into a brick wall for starters – she supposed that made her a bad person, but it had been a long day and she was far too pissed off and tired to care.

“I just thought, you’d both like to know,” he said with as much quiet dignity as it was possible to scrape together when you were Manny, “That he just said he was going to sacrifice us all.”

They turned as one to look at The Hitcher, who was posed dramatically, the sea of green faces behind him – watching them.

“That’s right, my pork pies. All that’s left for us to do is decide who gets to be the lucky ol’ one who goes first. Thankfully I’ve got just the right thing up my sleeve.”

The next moments happened in too much of a multi-hued, horrifying blur for Fran to make any sense of what was actually happening. All she knew was that she was grabbed and pinched and shoved precariously onto a swivelling stool, all accompanied by a cacophony  of cat calls and whistles and laughter.

As the world faded back into focus she found herself next to Bernard, perched on another stool with a background of long sparkly silver streamers behind them. The Hitcher was stood nearby, a microphone appearing in one hand, a cane in the other. Green people bustling around him.

Another of his green fiends wandered across the front of the podium, holding up a large white card, the crowd roaring at him. As he turned, Fran saw what was written upon it:- APPLAUSE!

The Hitcher stepped forward, another card and the crowd fell silent.

“Hello you slags,” the Hitcher bellowed at them, “And welcome to my show! We’ve got three brand new contestants competing for the chance to go under the knife. The prize of Kings – and it will be, as the King is going to be fourth for the chop.”

Raucous laughter. Another white card.

“Now normally I’d introduce the contestants but I asked myself, who the hell gives a fuck. So let’s get on with the questions.”

Moving forward, he prodded Manny at the other end of the line with the cane. “Contestant number one, what do you think me an’ you have in common?”

Silence.

“Errr...  I... errr... what?” Manny stuttered.

“Going to have to rush you contestant number one, or it’ll be the eels for you.”

“Eels? Well... errr... you’re a cockney and I’m a cockney and I err... I like polos...”

The Hitcher shook his head sadly, whacked Manny across the face with the cane and moved across to Bernard, who was glaring at him.

“We have nothing in common,” Bernard told him. Which, Fran thought, all things considered, seemed a little left of the mark if not entirely untrue.

The Hitcher ignored him. “Contestant number two, where would you take me on a first date?”

“Well,” Bernard replied slowly, tone dangerously light, “Paris obviously. I thought we could go to the Louvre, then have our portrait painted at Montmartre. We would share a croissant at a charming street side cafe and stroll along the banks of the Seine holding hands as the sun glances across the water, a man would be playing on an accordion, a love song...”

Before the Hitcher could respond a high, painful feedback whine screamed across the landscape and crackled – like thunder or gunfire, loud enough to deafen. The noise faded and for a second silence reigned again.

“... THE HITCHER’S TAKEN OVER XOOBERON AND WE REALLY NEED YOU TO CRIMP,” a voice suddenly echoed out of the silence. The voice of god, who was, Fran was pleased to note, a woman. “AS LONG AS IT’S NOT SOMETHING RUDE AND DOESN’T INVOLVE NUDITY.”

There were a few more seconds silence and then a different voice, more than one voice, two at least, speaking together.

“_TRAPPED IN THE DESERT OF NIGHTMARES..._”****

****

“_Trapped in the desert of nightmares,  
Ooh, ooh – bright light!_”__

“What the hell is that?” The First A.D. whispered, leaning in closer to the Second A.D.

“Crimping, apparently,” she replied with a shrug, “At least they’re still all clothed and no hair cuts.”

“_Spiral down, like a twisty spirograph  
Captured in a crayon prison  
Colours all around, surround sound,_”

“_Yellow sand, blue rock, red sky  
Together like a monsters paradise  
Blue colour, layer of colour  
Red colour, layer of colour  
Make a picture.  
Sand._”__

As they watched the two men moving in unison, jerkily dancing, more voices joined in. The small man and the gorilla first and then others, spreading out among the crowds.

_“Sand bottle picture art  
Take it home, Put it on the mantelpiece  
Mantelpiece style, from the market aisle.  
Take it home, Put it on the mantelpiece  
Fall in the picture.”_

Extras who shouldn’t even have lines, suddenly knew every word. The crimp gaining power and momentum.

“Bloody hell,” the First A.D. swore. “Do you think that’s supposed to happen?”

“Fuck knows,” she told him and then with a grin stepped forward, feeling the scene trembling temptingly around her. A swirl of madness, like water, just waiting to be plunged into. Submerged.

“What are you doing?” The First A.D. reached for her.

She turned to look at him with a grin, eyebrows wiggling for a second. “If you can’t beat them, join them.”

Stepping backwards deeper into the crowd, arms raised above her head, she began to dance, spinning around, words flowing across her and over her and through her.

_“Gather round blue men,  
Blue man,  
Tent men, tent man, blue men.”_

 “_Men of Xooberon  
Where have you gone?  
Swallowed by the green.”_

_“Empty tents at empty tables._”__

****

_“TALL LAYER, ZIGGURAT, RISING FROM THE SAND NOW,  
WHO CAN TELL ME, WHAT THE MAN HAS PLANNED.  
GREEN MAN, MASTERPLAN, DANCING WITH A KNIFE,  
PAY A PRICE, SACRIFICE.  
SANDSTORM, BLOW YOUR HORN, WON’T YOU SAVE ME LIFE?”_

The words were all nonsense, rambling strings of sentence, like listening to Bernard philosophise. But as they boomed out, the green people started to shudder, hands clasping their faces, fingers ripping polo eyes away. A moaning mass of transformation. Collapsing to the floor.

The Hitcher spun, eyes even wilder than normal, racing across the people. “No!”

Behind him, Bernard stumbled from his stool, and then hands still bound, managed to lift it. Quietly, well quietly for Bernard, he moved towards the Hitcher and just as the Hitcher’s skinny green hand reached for the talisman still hanging around his neck, he smashed it around his head.

The black top hat spun through the air, a graceful arc of slowed motion, polos catching the light and the Hitcher crumpled to the ground, Bernard stood above him, triumphant.

“_LIFE!_

_“ZIGGUR-UP, ZIGGUR-DOWN, EVERYBODY ZIGGUR-ROUND,  
FREE!  
FREE YOU FROM THIS NIGHTMARE FANTASY!!!  
XOOBERON!_”__

The words and odd rhymes shivered to a close. And slowly, the people on the floor began to stand. Faces back to normal, clothes fading back to dull colours, vanishing and drifting together, leaving an oddly assortment in their wake, a handful compared to the hundreds before. And the studio faded back to life.

Dylan stood for a moment, stool still clutched above him, arms trembling. Still. Then slowly, with infinite care he looked down at himself.

“What am I wearing?” He asked in horror.

As one, Tamsin and Bill burst into laughter.

Tamsin recovered first, she raised her bound her arms. “I’m not sure I agreed to a bondage game show episode. Anyone going to help a girl out?”

****  
Noel woke in the middle of what seemed to be a party. It wasn’t the first time. Unfamiliar faces danced around him.

He twisted, taking in the scene and his clothes whispered, the soft noise of paper against paper – he seemed to be wearing a sketch book or something.

“Excellent,” he said with a grin.

He looked up as Rich danced past and spotted Mike in a corner freeing a sweaty Dave from the Bollo costume. It looked like the hangover had kicked in at last. It took a few more seconds to find Julian, stood looking  slightly confused, gazing around the crowd. Grinning, he started to slide through the people towards him.

“Definitely excellent,” he decided, with a laugh.

****

They stood watching the car disappear, the three of them in a line, finally relaxed. The Second A.D. couldn’t help but smile, it was, she felt, a job well done. The Mighty Boosh boys were gone; Dylan, Bill and Tamsin were on the way back apparently unscarred – at least physically; and she’d already arranged to meet up with the Prop’s Girl.

Overall it had been a good day.

“So,” she said, turning to the Runner. “How was your first day? Not too awful?”

“Err...” He looked weirdly nervous.

 “What?” The First A.D. demanded, definitely not making him any more calm.

“Don’t tell me we’ve managed to scare you away?” The Second A.D. tried instead. “You did really well. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“Err... it was just... actually, I was thinking I might try acting.”

The First A.D. groaned as she laughed.

“Pub?” She suggested.

“Definitely pub,” he agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> My policy on permissions for use of my work is that you don't in fact need my permission to make art, record podfic, remix, critique, translate, save, share or otherwise reuse and interact with anything I've done. I'd love it if you'd share a link with me when you're done
> 
> Any comments are also welcome – I'd love to hear what worked for you and (truly) what didn't or about those really obvious typos that my mind can't see anymore. If you don't want to comment publicly, feel free to e-mail me. Everything and anything will be loved and cherished.


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